The soldier's orphans

=Philadelphia:= T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS; 306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Southern District of New York.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. PAGE A FRIEND IN NEED 21 CHAPTER II. PREPARING FOR THE FAIR 41 CHAPTER III. THE OLD MAID 52 CHAPTER IV. THE FAIR 61 CHAPTER V. AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER 75 CHAPTER VI. THE SOLDIER’S DEATH 88 CHAPTER VII. THE UNCLE FLEECED 97 CHAPTER VIII. BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS 109 CHAPTER IX. THE NEWSBOY 121 CHAPTER X. ROBERT GETS A SITUATION 127 CHAPTER XI. AN INTRUDER 134 CHAPTER XII. AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE 148 CHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 155 CHAPTER XIV. LOVE AND MALICE 171 CHAPTER XV. A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN 195 CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 206 CHAPTER XVII. A NEW LIGHT 220 CHAPTER XVIII. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 231 CHAPTER XIX. A DECLARATION OF LOVE 248 CHAPTER XX. A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND 265 CHAPTER XXI. A HUNGRY HEART 279 CHAPTER XXII. A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT 289 CHAPTER XXIII. AN ENGAGEMENT 297 CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION 315

THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.

CHAPTER I. A FRIEND IN NEED.

God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally, giving forth a sudden rush of sound now and then like broken-winged birds making wild efforts to fly.

This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light, bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it, praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple, pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble drapery sculptured around a statue.

The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her lap, sighed heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient composure.

Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began to sort over the shells with eager haste.

“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small either. Get me a knife.”

The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth, and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it. The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away with it to his grandmother’s side.

“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried, breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a strong man.

The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile crept around her lips.

“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”

“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”

“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all. That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw them in, I’ll be bound.”

Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot haste.

“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”

With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by anticipation.

“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day that we get a treat like this.”

Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.

“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a railroad, or something worth while.”

“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired, I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, Robert, for she hasn’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”

Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of utter despair seemed upon her.

“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect one cent. What shall we do?”

The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”

The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the weeping girl.

“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”

“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised the boys such a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare feet, how cold they look!”

“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”

Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew it.

“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”

Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.

“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!” cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.

“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry up.”

“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister is breaking her heart to know——”

“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”

“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”